Shelagh Mannion: A Life in Vignettes
by JD11
Summary: Chapter 1: The early life of Shelagh Mannion that lead her into the religious life. Chapter 2 and beyond: As Sister Bernadette rediscovers her younger self, she begins to remember what she wants in life. Turnadette
1. Chapter 1

The telegram was crisp. A bright white in painful contrast with the black, inky letters. Every 't' was raised, towering over the vowels. The right bottom corner, where Shelagh held it, was wrinkled. The only sign of grief.

Only yesterday, she had received a letter from him. The letter was three weeks old. Yellow paper with the faint scribbling of a pencil desperately writing on the soft surface of someone's thigh in flickering candlelight. He couldn't say where he was and she had imagined him huddled in a foxhole, shivering, somewhere in France or Germany. In his letter, he joked about the lack of tea and a prank he had played on his best mate – something to do with a snowball; she couldn't remember. He told her how much he missed her. He begged her to consider St. John's again and Shelagh had thought she'd marry him in a barn if he'd just come home.

When the sob finally escaped her, when her knees buckled, soft bony hands steadied her on her way to the floor. She clung tighter to the telegram, squeezing it until the crispness gave way to uneven ridges and valleys.

/-/-

It's the summer of 1935. Tomorrow, Shelagh will turn seven, but today she will marry her sweetheart. Michael Morrisonhad run off the cricket field in the street that morning and without a moment's hesitation asked her in front of everyone if she would marry him. He had a freckled nose and big bright green eyes and dark brown hair that never laid flat. Her friends giggled and Shelagh nodded yes. Michael smiled, pecked a kiss on her blushing cheek, and ran off.

Now Shelagh stands in her father's field, wrapped in a white sheet she and her friends had taken off her brother's bed. They used a handkerchief and a beaded necklace to make her a veil. Michael's friend Geoffrey stands with Michael at the opened gate while Shelagh, with a bouquet of dandelions walks a wedding march unsteadily up the dirt path. There are goats bleating; a silent wind protects them from the harsh midday sun; innocent giggles erupt in bursts from the wedding party.

Geoffrey asks if they will take each other to be man and wife, even if one of them is dying, and if they will love each other forever. 'I do' they answer. Geoffrey tells them to kiss each other. They blush and laugh and lean in until their lips just barely touch.

Now pronounced man and wife, Michael runs off with the boys to play football and Shelagh retreats with the girls inside.

/-/-

Shelagh helped her father lean forward as his coughing grew worse – a breathless, wet, aching cough that lasted until his handkerchief was spotted with dark blood. Shelagh could only rub his back and wince as she heard her father's pain in the exhausted way he panted for breath and the soft groan that escaped him as he settled back down against his pillows. His breath wheezed past his lips. His eyes drifted to see her.

She busied herself – moving to the vanity to dampen a cloth in cool water; dabbing the sweat from his brow, the blood from his chin; taking the bloodied handkerchief from his hand and replacing it with something clean. Her father was dying. If she kept moving, perhaps he would pass faster and his pain would end.

'Shelagh.' Her name was a deep moan; his voice stilled her.

'I'm here, da.' She took his hand in hers – thick, hairy, but now weak. 'I'm here.'

Over the past few days, his eyes had gone glassy. He looked always as if he were just about to wake from a daydream. He was gazing now at the ceiling. His lips moved, but his wheezing drowned out any sound. She leaned her ear toward his lips.

'Look after your brother,' he said softly. 'His mind hasn't been right since the war.'

/-/-

Shelagh's brother got married in September of 1939. The wedding was beautiful, everything Shelagh wanted in her own. The ceremony was at St. Andrews where the stain glass windows, painted vibrant reds and purples and greens, let in just the right lighting in early afternoon. Every pew had sweet-smelling, colorful bouquets. There were ribbons and bows lacing them together. The bride, in her mother's old dress with her hair braided and decorated, looked angelic. She radiated peace and joy and beauty. Shelagh stared at the bride as if she was in a dream.

In the cooling late afternoon, Shelagh watched her brother envelop his bride in his arms and twirl her around the dance floor. They were so happy, so carefree.

Three days later, Britain declared war on Germany. A few months later, Shelagh's brother enlisted in the Royal Airforce. They got the news two years and a day after his wedding that he'd been shot down over Italy.

/-/-

She has only one clear, vivid memory of her mother:

Shelagh is perhaps five. She sits on the wood floor. In her arms, she holds a baby doll. The doll wears a white dress with pink and purple flowers embroidered along the hem. Her mother had sown those for her. The doll was a Christmas Present. The dress had been finished for Easter.

Shelagh cradled the doll, rocked her in jilted movements. She looked up at her mother. Her mother stood not far away, near the sink, drying dishes. Her hair was the same brown-blonde as Shelagh's. A few strands came loose. There was a breeze coming in through the opened kitchen windows.

A plate clinked against another and Shelagh blew a loud, hard 'Shh!' between her baby teeth.

Her mother smiled down at her. She had grey-blue eyes. Softly, she said, 'Is the baby sleeping?'

Shelagh nodded and kept rocking the doll.

Her mother's eyes may have been green, like her brother's; Shelagh can't actually remember. She likes to believe that, when she looks in the mirror, it's her mother's eyes she sees looking back at her.

She sees this memory as if she's a ghost, floating above her younger self. In her darkest, quietest moments, she realizes the memory is just a dream – her mother too much an image of herself to be real.

/-/-

She accompanied Michael to the train station. He looked so smart in his uniform – all starch and straight lines. The uniform seemed to have changed him. He was gangly before he had left for training – but now he stood straighter, his shoulders and arms were stronger, steadier. His hair was slicked and neat.

She wanted to tell him how scared she was. She wanted to beg him to stay. She wanted to pull him down and kiss him until the feel of her lips was burnt into his memory. She wanted to cry until he promised to come home.

They were quiet. Shelagh kept her eyes low – if she looked at him, she knew she would cry, and if she cried, she knew he would worry. But Michael stared at her with a little goofy grin, memorizing her every feature.

'Shelagh,' he said and she loved the lightness of his voice. 'Look at me.' She kept her chin low, but her eyes and looked up at him through her new glasses. 'I love you. You know that, right?'

'Of course I do.'

'I've loved you ever since we were little kids.' She laughed a breathy, short laugh at the implied joke. 'I know that I joke all the time that we're already married – courting's just a formality.' She dropped her eyes again, her fear overwhelming her, but he bent at the knee and searched for her eyes. 'But I want you to know that I'm coming back to you. The minute I get home, I want to take you to St. John's and marry you.'

His words stilled her breath. She was surprised and she wasn't surprised. Her first thought was to say, 'St. Andrews.'

'Sorry?'

'St. Andrews has the better lighting. I've always dreamed of being married there.'

He took her hands in his. 'It's too small to fit our families,' he said, then stopped and smiled. 'Are you saying yes?'

Shelagh looked up shyly at him. 'You haven't asked yet.'

The train whistled. Nearby, the conduct yelled 'All aboard!' From the car behind them, Geoffrey stuck his head out the windows and yelled for him to hurry up. She clung to his hands tighter.

'Shelagh,' he began but she interrupted.

'Do it right.'

The conductor yelled again. His mate began to bang on the side of the car. Michael dropped to his knee. He produced from his shirt pocket a small ring – a gold band with a simple diamond. 'Shelagh Mannion, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?'

As soon as she said yes, he was on his feet. He kissed her on the cheek and lifted her small frame in his arms, spinning her around. The train lurched just then; Geoffrey hollered from the car. For just a moment, she thought he wouldn't leave. But then he was scooping up his bag and sprinting for the car. He stood for just a moment on the stairs, waving goodbye. The sprit had disheveled his hair; he wore a goofy grin; he looked just like the boy she had fallen in love with.

Then the train steamed out of sight. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't cry. That was the last time Shelagh ever saw Michael.

/-/-

Her brother had survived being shot down over Italy and later he flew during the invasion of Normandy. A few weeks later, he'd crashed on Allied soil and broke his leg in four places. After months of recovery, he returned home – limping and bruised, but alive. His arrival was met with a celebratory party, but he sulked and drank so much he couldn't use his crutches to get his makeshift bed.

After his leg healed, he put off looking for work. He developed a tremor in his left hand. He drank just a little every day and put his fist through walls to keep his anger off his wife. After their father died, his wife moved back in with her mother. The neighbors claimed he screamed every night as if he were spiraling towards the ground in a burning plane.

He came to her one day in the early spring of 1947. He was much calmer than she'd seen him in a while. When he hugged her, he smelt of cigarettes and bourbon. He talked wistfully of their mother; he apologized for not being around more with their father's illness; he admitted to a strange sense of relief and disappointment that he and his wife had never had any children. Then he kissed her on the forehead and left.

Shelagh's brother was a brave man. He shot himself that evening.

After the funeral, she sold their parents' house and packed what little she wanted into a little brown suitcase.

She wasn't sure where she would go, but that seemed less important than the leaving.


	2. Chapter 2

"The school let you leave? Somebody should have come with you."

When she hears Dr. Turner's tone, she's suddenly seven years old again standing in the dusty living room of her father's home. Her father is a big man – broad drooping shoulders; thick legs and bulky hands; his hair has grown out and he forgets most mornings to shave, making him disheveled and unkempt. His boots are muddied and his brow has dirt plastered by sweat to his forehead. He's yelling at her sixteen-year-old brother, his words exhausted and breathless.

It isn't so much a memory, as a vague sense of a general state of life. Had her brother remained after school to play football or cricket with his mates when he was meant to be home looking after her? Had her brother forgotten to do the shopping on his way home? Had her brother complained of being asked to cook dinner – women's work? Was her father demanding that he quit school – a fool's errand if he thought he was going on to University; there was no money for that…

When she was seven, little Shelagh used to cry silently in the corner, hugging her doll to her chest. But now Sister Bernadette hears the same exhaustion – the tired, lonely desperation that clouds all reason – in Dr. Turner's voice and she knows poor Timothy needs his mum now.

When she looks over, he is holding Timothy's arm, a large scrap on his elbow.

"I told them I knew how to get here. You're always at work."

The realization that he can't have his mum physically constricts her lungs. As a little girl, she wanted nothing more than a soothing presence to calm her father's tired rage.

"What if I was away on a call?" Dr. Turner scolds the boy.

"Is everything all right, Doctor?" she interrupts.

"They just sent him here. Why can't they deal with that at school? It's only a graze."

His exhaustion has completely clouded his sympathy. He needs someone to save him from himself, so she smiles down at Timothy. "Let me see here. Well I think we're definitely going to need a bandage. We should clean it first though."

The look Dr. Turner gives her is the same look of guilty anxiety that her father used to cast upon her little frame as soon as he noticed her crying. His concern would deflate the rage bulging his forehead and his guilt would distort his tone of voice – "Now you've gone and upset your sister," he'd say to her brother, then lift her onto his shoulders and bring her out into the fresh air.

A few moments later, Timothy holds his elbow out for Sister Bernadette to clean. "A little sting," she cautions as she presses an alcohol-soaked swab onto the cut. He winces, but keeps quiet. As she works calmly and steadily, she glances up at him through her glasses. "Your father loves you. You know that, right?"

The corners of his lips purse down, but soon the frown is replaced by a tremoring bottom lip.

"Oh Timothy." She sets her instruments down. She smooths his hair and rubs her thumb along his cheek. "You miss your mum so terribly, don't you?"

Big, round tears form on his eyelashes. He nods, his lip still trembling, wanting to cry. "I'm forgetting what she looked like."

When is the last time Sister Bernadette had been able to hold an image of her mother steady in her mind? The image is always distorted, the gaps filled in with her own reflection.

She takes Timothy's hands in hers and rubs smooth skin. "I'm afraid we tend to forget faces, after a time. Your mother played piano?"

He sniffles, then nods. "And she used to sing to me."

"Can you still hear her voice?" He nods a little. "Do you remember how it made you feel, when she'd play for you and sing?" He nods again, more confidently this time. He's calming, relaxing under her gaze. "Hold tight to that, Timothy, and you'll never forget your mother. She'll always be with you."

She goes back to work, cleaning and dressing his elbow. Now and then, she glances up at his face. He's watching her, his observant eyes tracking her every move. He has a few stray freckles under his eyes, a couple of light ones on the bridge of his nose. His hair is neat today, combed into submission; she imagines most mornings it's a war to tame.

There is another face that has faded from her. No matter how hard she tries some night in prayer, his face has gone from her. But when she looks at little Timothy Turner – his stray freckles; his unruly dark hair; his impish, playful grin – she sees Michael so vividly, so exactly that it stays her.

"How old are you now, Timothy?" she asks, as if to push away the silence.

"Eleven." His voice has returned to normal.

If Michael had returned to her after the war, they would have a child – perhaps a boy – the same age as Timothy. "My, you're getting so old!" How painful that is to admit; how difficult to say it with a smile.

She pats his patched up arm. "All done. Give your father a hug and then run on back to school."

He nods and, like the dutiful boy, sprints to his father, wraps his arms around Dr. Turner's waist, and, just as fast, bolts out the door. The doctor turns to watch his son go and, in the process, notices Sister Bernadette watching the whole scene. He smiles at her – a thankful, relieved, nervous smile.


	3. Chapter 3

At four in the afternoon, Sister Bernadette's half day has finally come to an end after a particularly long, but joyous birth. As she cycles back toward Nonnatus house, she happens to overhear Timothy Turner's high-pitched cry: "Dad! We don't have time for another stop – the shops will be closing soon and then we can't cook the dinner you promised."

"I know, Timothy," Dr. Turner replies curtly. Then he sighs, and is gentler when he says, "But this is very important."

Sister Bernadette brings her bike to a slow glide, approaching them, just in time to hear Timothy mutter under his breath, "Everything's always 'important'."

"Good afternoon, Doctor, Timothy!" She says pleasantly, trying to act as if she hadn't heard their little row.

Timothy brightens immediately upon seeing her. "Hello, Sister Bernadette!"

"Hello, Sister," Dr Turner returns, a little smile relaxing his face as well.

"Is everything well?" she asks.

Dr Turner immediately begins to reply "Yes" but his son interrupts, "No, we're going to miss grocery shopping because dad has had too many patients to look in on today and we're supposed to be cooking a special dinner tonight."

"A special dinner?" She says and frowns a little. She's tired, having been with Mrs. Thompson since the wee hours of the morning, but she can't bear the disappointment on Timothy's face or the stress building in Dr. Turner's countenance. "Well, I'd be happy to take Timothy to do the shopping while you finished your rounds, Doctor."

"Oh no, I couldn't ask that –"

"That'd be perfect!" Timothy is already taking the handles of Sister Bernadette's bike, offering to walk it for her, and heading in the direction of the grocers.

Dr. Turner offers a strange mixture of an apology and a thank you, but Sister Bernadette smiles and squeezes his elbow gently. "It's no trouble at all, Doctor. None at all."

As they shop, Sister Bernadette is a little surprised by Timothy – he knows precisely what they need to make the dinner and where to find it all, but then he grabs a half-ripe tomato, which she has to gently return and show him to select something redder, juicer. A little later, while she's standing waiting for their cut of meat, she watches Timothy spinning around a lamppost just outside the door. Then he lets go, staggers, before seeing that she's been watching him. He smiles back at her, a big, goofy grin that absently Sister Bernadette recalls used to greet his father's face on occasion.

When they make it back to the Turner home, she's a little surprised to find no sign of Dr Turner, but Timothy seems entirely unfazed. He begins to pull out a cutting board and knife, organizing the recently acquired groceries. Then he looks at her. "So now what do we do?"

She's missing high tea for a reason Sister Julienne would certainly not find appropriate and there were chores to do, tasks to attend to, but ever since she'd noticed hints of Michael in Timothy's face and ever since she saw the exhaustion in Dr Turner that had run her father down, she couldn't deny either of them anything. She rolls up her sleeves and sets to work teaching Timothy to dice the vegetables while she prepares the meat.

An hour later, dinner is nearly ready. Sister Bernadette has taken over cleaning up the kitchen, while she sends Timothy to the dinner table with his school books. Just as she shuffles out of the kitchen, she thinks she heard the door open, but at the same moment she notices a pile of pencil shavings building up on the table. She brushes them carefully in her scoped hand, while at the same time admonishing Timothy, "You ought to do this over the bin. We don't want pencil shavings in your dinner!" As soon as he bows his head, sufficiently chastised, she smiles and tells him to clear the table.

As soon as she'd stepped back into the kitchen, she hears Dr Turner's voice: "Tim, I'm so sorry. I got held up with my last patient. I got home as quickly as I could." He steps inside and tosses his coat over the living room sofa so he can check his wristwatch. "I don't think it's too late to start dinner."

Hearing that, Timothy smirks. "That's all right, dad, Sister Bernadette and I already made dinner! And I finished my maths."

From behind the pass-through window, Sister Bernadette smiles sheepishly. "I hope you don't mind that I stayed and helped." She pulls the apron knot loose as she speaks, then emerges from the kitchen.

He is flustered for a moment before shrugging. "I don't know what to say. Thank you, Sister."

Then he looks down at her in a way that he'd never looked at her before – astonishment, perhaps, is at the base of his expression, but there is something else. She feels like she should look away, but she is entranced by his dark eyes. "You have flour –" He reaches out toward her cheek. She blushes, laughs, and retreats into the kitchen.

As she pats her cheek dry, Dr. Turner leans against the kitchen doorframe, watching her. "I really don't know how to thank you for this."

"There's no need. Seeing Timothy happy was thanks enough." She smiles, then says, "Well, I best be off."

"Off? Surely you'll stay and eat the dinner you prepared?"

At the same moment, Timothy pops his head through the pass-through window. "Of course you must stay, Sister Bernadette!"

"Oh, thank you, Timothy, but I'm expected back at Nonnatus House."

Somewhat reluctantly, Dr. Turner steps aside and lets her pass. He follows and opens the door for her. "You're certain you won't stay?" He speaks softly to keep Timothy from hearing him ask again.

Standing in the doorway, she looks past Dr. Turner into the house. The lighting is dim and warm. There is love here – pain, sorrow, but love.

She hadn't gone shopping with Timothy, hadn't cooked dinner with any intention of reaping the benefits. She had done so purely out of fondness – out of love – for the Turner family.

But then the scent of a hot dinner wafts out into the streets and suddenly Sister Bernadette is paralyzed by some indescribable desire – a want, a need, an emotion; she can't say. She can only leave. "No, thank you, Doctor," she says and abruptly leaves.

Her ride back to Nonnatus is in a shroud of confusion. She finds herself quite unexpectedly kneeling before the chapel alter. In the stillness, her thoughts are dizzying. She feels as if she is shouting, her voice echoing off the stone walls, her words unintelligible.

Certainly, dinner had smelt wonderful and she would have enjoyed providing companionship for the Turner boys had she not worried that her absence would be disruptive. She didn't feel disappointed or conflicted by her duties; leaving had been the right decision. But the profound sense of loss she had felt at leaving; the urgent, irrational desire to remain had been momentarily debilitating.

As she meditates, kneeling in God's presence, she grows mentally still, calm enough to focus in on the sense of loss, the profound emptiness, the loneliness, she had experienced.


	4. Chapter 4

**After 02x03, but significantly before 02x05.**

After a particularly long day, Sister Bernadette happily walked her bike the final stretch up to the bike shed. As she approached the old house, she saw Dr. Turner leaning against the buttress, one foot resting on the bottom stair. Gingerly, he held a half-smoked cigarette. He was reclining comfortably, tiredly, his eyes closed. She could tell he was holding the smoke in his lungs, relishing the sensation, until finally releasing a dense white stream.

She tried to be as quiet as possible, not wishing to interrupt his moment of calm, but her bike was a little squeaky and, as she grew nearer, he must have heard her. He opened his eyes and brought his head forward, but otherwise remained relaxed.

"Good evening, Sister."

"Good evening, Doctor," she replied with a smile. "Loitering for any reason?" she teased as she walked past and returning her bike.

He cranked his head to watch her and chuckled a little. "I just had a few matters to discuss with Sister Julienne. Timothy won't be done with the cubs for another ten minutes, so I thought I'd just enjoy a nice evening with a good cigarette."

She walked up next to him and shifted her medical bag so that it hung in front of her held in both hands. "That sounds like a marvellous plan."

He smiled and took another long, languid drag, filling his lungs entirely, then exhaled up towards the darkening sky. She was reminded briefly of their night, not so long ago, standing outside the Carter household. Secretly, she hoped he'd offer her another little puff, but she darned not ask.

"Well," she said more in a sigh than as word. She gestured toward the stairs. "I don't want to intrude on your moment of silence."

"No, please," he said instantly. He paused for a moment to pick a stray bit of tobacco off his tongue. "Join me?" As he spoke, he wagged his eyebrows and offered her his cigarette.

While staring at the offered fag, she bit her lip, trying to suppress the desire to accept his offer once again. But the cheekiness of his smile – a playful acknowledgement of their little secret – made it impossible for her to say no. She took the cigarette with a quiet thank you and poorly contained smile.

As she took a little puff, he pulled out his cigarette case and plucked a fresh one. "You can finished that one," he said with a little wink, just before striking a match. She watched his face glow against the fading light and shyly took another puff. She kept her drags shallow and held the smoke for only a moment, as if the restraint – resisting the urge to take the same luxurious, greedy drags as Dr. Turner – was somehow penance for her little lapse.

For a while, they stood quietly besides each other, enjoying the stillness of the street, the gentle breeze, comfortably cool. After a while, Dr. Turner turned to her and asked, "You said you used to nick these from your father, but did you ever actually smoke? Beyond the occasional?"

She felt her cheeks blush a little. She shook her head a little – half-shrugged as if to say no. But then she revealed, "I had a boyfriend throughout high school. He started smoking when we turned fifteen and so he always had cigarettes on him – not usually the quality of Henley's, but he'd have something. I didn't smoke, per se, but I did take a few puffs on his… fairly often."

The way Dr. Turner laughed in response to her story reminded her of the doctor before his wife's illness: carefree, relaxed, laughter bursting forth from deep within his core.

She took a little puff as he'd calmed from his laughter, before saying, "So no, I never actually smoked." And that set him off on a second round of mirth-filled chuckles.

He took another long drag, his second cigarette already half-gone. Sister Bernadette put hers to her lips and this time closed her eyes and took a long-ish drag, granting herself one moment of selfish indulgence.

At that exact moment, the door banged opened. In surprise, Sister Bernadette's eyes snapped opened, she dropped her hand behind her back. Sister Evangelina emerged almost instantly, her head popping around in search of something. Sister Bernadette held her breath to conceal the hot smoke burning in her lungs.

"Ah! Sister Bernadette, I thought I'd heard your voice out here," Sister Evangelina called from the top of the stairs. Sister Bernadette could do nothing but look up at her, expectantly, while her eyes teared up. "There's supper on the table. Hurry along."

Sister Bernadette nodded, willing Sister Evangelina to just look away for a moment. As soon as the door swung closed, she coughed out the smoke she'd been holding. Dr. Turner tried to stifle his laughter, but once Sister Bernadette laughed herself, he let himself enjoy the moment.

"Well, I suppose that's my punishment for enjoying a little too much," she said and dropped the nub. Dr. Turner crushed it into the ground.

He shrugged and released another drag of his own. "Sometimes a little punishment is worth the reward." Then he dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. "Well, I best be off to Timothy and looks like you're wanted inside. Goodnight, Sister."

She waved and stood watching him as he walked to his car. "Goodnight, Doctor."


	5. Chapter 5

It turned out to be a rather calm Thursday morning, which Sister Bernadette was quietly grateful for. She had been asked to work at the surgery that morning to help Dr. Turner deal with a larger than normal workload due to taking on a neighbouring doctor's patients for the fortnight. Usually the surgery had the experience of runny noses and skin rashes and back pains bursting at the seams, people organized in no logical position and Dr. Turner's gentle nature keeping him from maintaining any sense of haste. But today, Sister Bernadette's no-nonsense orderliness had the receptionist keeping the pace and the flow of patients between the two offices ran smoothly. She even ensured the doctor had a fifteen minute tea break.

But now the office was closed up for luncheon and Sister Bernadette ducked into Dr. Turner's office to let her know she was heading back to Nonnatus House. When she entered, she found him standing with his back to her, staring out his office window. He'd removed his jacket at some point and rolled his sleeves three quarters up his arms. She liked the way it made him seem more engaged, more ready to jump in to the grimmer aspects of care – in that way, he was often so much different than his counterparts in hospital.

She cleared her throat, gently, to gain his attention. He started, twisting around. For a moment, his gaze was blank; he looked at her but he didn't see her.

"Sorry for disturbing you, Doctor, I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving."

Her voice helped him to regain himself. He cleared his throat and started moving toward his desk, seemingly with no purpose, for then he walked around it toward her and sat on the edge. "Right, of course, thank you for the help today."

"Of course, Doctor." She nearly left – she felt as if she had intruded on a private moment and the awkwardness of that intrusion had leadened the air throughout the office; besides that, her feet ached and her stomach was making itself known – instead though, she gingerly shut the door, closing them in together. Dr. Turner looked up at her, curiously, but quietly. "I hope this isn't inappropriate, but you've seemed… sad recently. Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

She thought he seemed a little taken aback at first, but then he sighed, pulled his hands from his pockets, and reached around him for his cigarette case. For a moment, he just played with the case, considering how to respond. "I don't think I've so much been sad, as brooding, perhaps."

He cracked the case opened and removed two cigarettes, both of which he placed between his lips and, in one deft move, struck a match and lit both. He took the one from his lips and, as if a natural habit, offered it to Sister Bernadette. She took it, surprised and only a little interested in smoking it, but she worried that not taking it would offend him. He took a few drags before saying anything. She waited quietly, taking one hesitate drag to keep the cigarette lit.

"It struck me a few days ago," he said as he looked at her, "that I feel happy more days than not. That I enjoy all the little things again – a nice night, Timothy's silly jokes, good conversation."

He looked away from her and she worried that speaking would break his momentum. On impulse, she walked over to his desk, taking a moment to knock some ashes into the tray he was holding, before leaning against his desk beside him. He glanced over at her, before looking down at the ash tray in his hand, knocking his own ashes into it as he thought.

"It's good to be happy, of course. I think things are getting better between Timothy and me the more I just relax and enjoy being a father again."

"That's good," she said and nodded, hoping she was urging him on.

"But Timothy does need a mother. He's too young." He stopped to take another drag. "I wish it were easy – you can hire a nanny, you can hire a housekeeper, you can't hire a mother." He laughed ironically at himself, then sighed, as if in apology. "I wouldn't begrudge some companionship, either. Marion was such a wonderful confidant – this job isn't easy and she understood that; she understood how to listen but also to refocus me onto our family. I miss an awful lot about her, but I need that in my life. I need that person to keep Timothy and I… trudging along."

He was quiet after admitting that and Sister Bernadette allowed the silence to permeate the room. Her reverie was disturbed by Dr. Turner's movements. She watched him, fixated on his hand as he first took a drag, then set the cigarette on the lip of the ashtray, freeing his hand pluck a piece of tobacco from his tongue. He failed at the first attempt, captured it on the second, then flicked it from his fingers, freeing them to take up the cigarette again. She looked down at the cigarette between her fingers; it had gone out from neglect. He saw where her gaze had settled and spoke suddenly, "Would you like me to re-light that?"

She smiled at him, but shook her head. "I shouldn't," she said and deposited the half-smoked cigarette on the side of the ashtray. "So, are you sad because you want to move on or brooding because you're not sure how?"

"A little of both, I suppose." He took the last drag of his cigarette then crushed it into the ashtray. "It's a delicate process. Just to find the right woman, much less have time to get to know her. And of course there's Timothy. I don't want him to feel like I would be trying to replace his mother; I want him to be able to fall in love with her – whoever she is – as well."

"He wants you to be happy. Once you find the right woman who makes you happy, he'll love her."

Dr. Turner shifted, bringing his knee up against the desk so he could set his ashtray back on the desk. Now he looked at her straight on, a gentle smile replacing the brooding frown she had found him with. "Thank you, Sister Bernadette. I'm glad… I'm glad that we can talk."

Suddenly, it seemed like a thought popped into his head. He chuckled to himself and shook his head. Bemused, Sister Bernadette questioned him. "No, no," he said, but at her imploring, he admitted, "I was just thinking… Don't take this the wrong way, but it's a shame that you're a nun." His statement surprised her and, by the way his amusement drained from his features, she knew he took her surprise for offense. "I just mean," he started in an effort to blunt his words, "that Timothy loves you. I don't really know why I thought that."

"No, I understood what you meant." She smiled and straightened. "You should make sure you get something to eat for luncheon."

He grinned, relieved it seemed that she wasn't upset with him. Then he gave a sloppy salute and said with a laugh, "Orders received."

His voice swirled around in her brain as she exited the surgery: 'It's a shame you're a nun…' The statement hadn't shocked her so much because Dr. Turner was saying it in reference to her as a candidate for Timothy's new mother, but because he had voiced a dark, unexplored, unspoken thought that had been festering for months. Hearing it said had made the feeling real and now she was afraid she would have to confront it.


	6. Chapter 6

The MacAlisdairs had arrived just two weeks ago from Scotland, which Sister Bernadette learned as she sat on Mrs. MacAlisdair's bed listening to her baby's heartbeat. She was about six months along, doing incredibly well despite the stress of travel and unpacking.

"It looks like everything is perfectly on track with baby, Mrs. MacAlisdair," she said as she helped the mother cover her belly. "You said this one is your fourth?"

"Aye, bit of a gap between my youngest and this new fella, but –" She cut herself off, ears perking. "Here they all come now; you could hear that rabble stampeding up the stairs from two miles off." She said it with a good heart and began the laborious process of sitting herself up; Sister Bernadette helped her to her feet. Sure enough, just moments later, three young boys – about eight, ten, and thirteen, Sister Bernadette guessed; all with sandy hair, skinny young things, with long legs – arrived in the doorway. They halted, almost comically, when they saw the nun.

"Good afternoon, sister," they all mumbled politely.

"Well hello!" she said, a genuine smile in place and giving a small wave to the littlest, who had half-hidden himself behind the older. "I expect you're all here searching for some luncheon."

The littlest nodded and their mother, who had already made her way into the kitchen, laughed and said, "They're famished all right. Well, go on boys. Wash your hands and get the table set." They sprinted off at the order.

"They're very well behaved," Sister Bernadette said toward the kitchen as she packed up her things.

"They're good lads." After a pause, "I couldn't tempt to you stay for some stew? You must be famished yourself."

Sister Bernadette waved off the offer, though she thanked Mrs. MacAlisdair generously. In the end, she carried the stew to the table and watched fondly as the oldest boy worked with the youngest to set the table. She smiled faintly at the harmonious sight before calling out a short goodbye and heading to the door. But, just as she reached for the handle, the door wrenched opened, startling both her and the man on the other side.

"Oh, pardon me, sister." The man slipped inside past her.

Mrs. MacAlisdair came round. "It's only my husband, sister." She gave him a kiss on the cheek as he in term wrapped an arm around her waist.

"You must have been here about the baby? Everything going well?"

Sister Bernadette stood in the opened doorway, her medical bag held before her in both hands, smiling at the domestic scene. "Your wife is the picture of health."

He smiled at that, then immediately disengaged her to greet his boys. He snatched the littlest up at the waist and hulled him around the table, all the while deflecting the weak assault led by the middle boy. Though Mrs. MacAlisdair was no doubt exasperated by him riling them up by before dinner, she was smiling at the sight regardless. Sister Bernadette felt herself smiling. She knew the sight of a happy home – three healthy children and a fourth to come; a strong, loving husband; a modest, but homely flat; and a good, cooked meal – brought her joy, but she could also feel her heart breaking.

In the raucous, she slipped outside. With her bag strapped in, she grabbed the handlebars of her bike and walked out into the street, then continued walking straight without any sense of where she was headed.

When Michael had first died, she hadn't been able to bear anyone else's joy – couldn't bear to see her friends enjoying their long awaited reunions; couldn't bear to visit her cousins wee children; couldn't bear to witness two lovers walking side-by-side. The world had ripped away her future; it had taken her a long time to mourn that life, to accept the new path God had laid out for her, but she had mourned it, she accepted it, and never once had she looked back since she joined the Order. But, for months now (perhaps longer, if she really looked inside of her), Michael's ghost and the ghost of their long-awaited life together had haunted her every thought.

For every moment of joy she witnessed, Sister Bernadette could feel only envy. Why did Mr. MacAlisdair survive the war and not her Michael? Why did the women of Poplar get to bring life into the world, get to nurture beautiful families and not her?

It wasn't until a bitter wind cut across the street that Sister Bernadette realized she had been crying. She stopped and rubbed a handkerchief against her cheeks, angry at herself for letting these thoughts overwhelm her.

"Sister Bernadette?"

She looked up in surprise at the sound of her name. For a moment, she was completely disoriented, trying rapidly to assess both her location and the source of her name. It was then she realized, in her distress, she had gone to the surgery and there, a few yards before her, was Dr Turner. He must have just been leaving to go on his rounds when she got there.

When she didn't respond, he closed the space between them in three quick strides. "Sister? Are you all right?"

In that moment, she doubted her voice. She could only nod, hoping to convince not only the doctor but also herself that she was in fact perfectly fine. But the doctor was neither a fool nor an unperceptive man and so he frowned as soon as her head began to bob and she knew he wouldn't leave her without some form of explanation.

She took a shaky breath to calm herself, then said - rather unexpectedly, "I could do with a cigarette, if you have one to spare."

He snatched one from his case without hesitation and passed it, as well as his lighter, to Sister Bernadette. It took her three tries to ignite the lighter, but once she did, she puffed greedily on the flame. Then she drew back on the lit cigarette, expanding her belly until the smoke filled every inch of her lungs. Meanwhile, the doctor drew a cigarette for himself, pensively knocked it against his case, and waited quietly for her to return his lighter.

Not a single word passed between the two of them. Sister Bernadette used the fidgeting, soothing motion of drawing smoke, holding it, blowing it out; of raising her hand, lowering her hand, knocking the ash to the street to calm her mind.

They both smoked a full cigarette all while standing beside Dr Turner's car on the busy avenue in front of the surgery, oblivious (or at least Sister Bernadette was oblivious) to the few dozen or so inhabitants of Poplar walking by. Once she'd finished the final drag of the offered cigarette, Sister Bernadette snuffed the nub out on the cement rail, dropped the paper onto the street, thanked the doctor for his generosity, mounted her bike, and rode back to Nonnatus.

Dr Turner stood there for a few moments longer, oddly still in her wake, finishing his own cigarette.


End file.
